Journal

Bookmarks of Love

Dear flower,
Pluck or not?
You will surely die, if I do.
For my selfishness knows no bound
And possessiveness for beauty
Throws ethics out of the scene.

And I can frame you,
Inside gold plated, carved wood.
Or keep you among the pages
Of my diary.
Where blood has stained
Everything red and black,
Rotten wounds all over.

Can use some yellow.
Can use some smile.

But, will I really be happy?
But, will you truly be mine?

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